


my past has tasted bitter for years now (so i wield an iron fist)

by irritable



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: (but the scenes take up half the fic so), Alternative Universe - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America AU, Chloe-centric - Freeform, F/F, Gen, cap!beca, pls read authors note at beginning!!, tbh mostly chloe being angsty and beca is in like to scenes, winter soldier!chloe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4756499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irritable/pseuds/irritable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She remembers sometimes. But, she forgets. She always forgets.</p><p>Remembering is bad business." </p><p>(or: chloe as the angsty winter soldier and beca as fighting-the-urge-to-be-sarcastic captain america)</p>
            </blockquote>





	my past has tasted bitter for years now (so i wield an iron fist)

**Author's Note:**

> imPORTANT:  
> \- title from "i'll be good" sung by jaymes young  
> \- this focus is on chloe, beca doesnt come in until later in the fic  
> \- ok im not a comic book junkie nor am i an expert on this so im sorry for any inaccuracies (ive only skimmed the wikia pages watched the film and got some info from my friend, so i do apologize!!)  
> 

There's two things she knows.

 

1\. She is not Chloe Beale.

 

2\. There is a poster of Captain America on the wall.

 

A man, across the square, crumples to the ground with a bullet lodged in his skull and dark red oozing out of his forehead. 

 

She stands, tucking the gun nearly away, and walks away from the window, from the poster that boasts of patriotism and safety. 

 

_\--_

 

_Kill. Kill. Kill._

 

She does.

 

She kills.

 

She does as she’s told, because if she doesn’t, she gets erased.

 

If she doesn’t, she’s gone, and she has to start again. From the beginning.

 

An empty shell.

 

Nobody.

 

She remembers sometimes.

 

She remembers blue, red, white.

 

She remembers sometimes, but–

_Wipe her_.

 

But, she forgets.

 

She always forgets.

 

\--

 

Her muscles are tense and sweat plasters her hair against her forehead.

 

She’s felt worse than this.

 

It doesn’t bother her.

 

It’s basically nothing, she thinks, but then again, she’s not a doctor.

 

She doesn’t frown or hiss when the bullet finally dislodges and gets plucked out of her arm by her own steady fingers.

 

Being wiped is worse than this, she thinks, she doesn’t need to be a doctor to know.

 

This is true. This, she knows for sure, is true.

 

Remembering is bad.

 

\--

 

 _Kill him_ , they tell her. _You’re a blessing. Free human kind._

 

She does as told, boldly.

 

She walks away with flecks of red splattered across her arms.

 

She kills and kills until the sleek silver of her left arm is closer to maroon than anything else.

 

She kills until she sees ice and the glare of the sun, and until she feels cold prickling against her back.

 

Until she she remembers something.

 

Sometimes, she won’t tell them. Sometimes, she won’t tell them what she sees.

 

They’re memories. They’re memories and she _can’t._

 

She doesn’t know.

 

Memories she didn’t know she had.

 

No matter how bad they are (bad, _vile_ memories), her curiosity beats it, and she says nothing; she marvels over them.

 

Her jaw clenches and her chest surges forward.

_Wipe her._

 

Air rushes inside in ragged breaths.

_Wipe her. Prep her._

 

She’s empty.

 

She kills.

 

\--

 

She remembers blue, red, and white.

_Wipe her. Wipe her. Wipe her._

 

She clenches her eyes as her muscles go rigged and her teeth bite down.

 

Don’t forget. Blue. Red. White.

 

Don’t forget.

 

Don’t forget it. Don’t.

 

She kills, blood seeps through her armour, and she sees the blue again, a flash of blue.

 

The blue with red, and with white.

_Mission Report. Good. Your mission, eliminate._

 

Remembering is bad business.

 

\--

 

Her instructions are simple.

 

Hold. Brief. Mission. Debrief. Await new orders.  

 

Her mindset is simpler.

 

Mission. Mission. Train. Rinse, repeat.

 

 

\--

 

_Disorder, chaos, selfishness, this is what America is built on. You are to correct this. You are a blessed weapon._

 

\--

 

The next memory is a rush of wind and metal.

 

“ _Chloe!_ ” she hears. It’s a train. There’s a train. Chloe.

 

She frowns. _Chloe_. The man in her hold gargles under her. _Chloe._ She lets go, taking her literal iron grip away from his throat.

 

She doesn’t know who Chloe is, but it creates a void in her mind.

 

She puts the name, the train, and the howling in her ears away.

 

Blue. She remembers blue. This blue isn’t paired with red or white. A deeper, richer blue. It’s darker.

 

\--

 

_Mission Report._

 

_Mission Report, now._

 

_Mission. Report._

 

“There’s-” She doesn’t understand. “A train?”

 

_Wipe her._

 

\--

 

She doesn’t know why she remembers.

 

Anything could trigger it. They come like waves, overwhelming and covering her whole.

 

It’s a terrible thing, to remember, because the memories are vague and so simple, she want – she needs more.

 

It’s a terrible thing, to remember, because the men in coats wipe her; erase; destroy.

 

It’s a terrible thing, to remember, because she can never hide it and the burning she feels in that chair is excruciating.

 

\--

 

She doesn’t remember.

 

There’s _something_ she can’t remember _._

 

 _God_ , why can’t she remember?

 

But there is _something_ she has to remember.

 

She just _can’t._

 

There’s a sickening crack as her fist slams into a chest and the bones crumble under the pressure of her fist.

 

She can’t.

 

But she sees red, and suddenly she can.

 

She remembers red.

 

And blue, and white.

 

Dark, deep blue.

 

They wipe her again. And again.

 

She doesn’t cry, not since the first time, she guesses.

 

She doesn’t thrash either, not anymore.

 

But, she screams, always.

 

She screams and screams.

 

\--

 

Blue.

 

\--

 

Her hand shoots out – a flurry of silver – and grapples onto the throat of the nearest man. The men in lab coats step back and the man in the suit comes in, she releases her hold, her back is ramrod straight.

 

_Mission Report._

 

_A service._

 

_Save the world._

 

It hits her, then. The word. The name.

 

 _Save the world_ , the man in the suit says and the name is all she can hear in her ears.

 

The name.

 

She flinches. A crack in her mask. A weakness.

 

She doesn’t know who it is. She doesn’t know, but she thinks it’s important if she can remember it.

 

Beca.

 

The man sees this. He stands. He doesn’t look back.

 

She chants the name in her head as she tenses in her seat and a shriek rips through her throat.

 

Beca. Beca. Beca.

 

\--

 

Bullets bounce right off her arm and the target dives into a bus.

 

She ducks – a smooth, rapid movement – and rips her damaged headgear off.

 

\--

 

She takes the gun. The man almost falls over with the force she applies, but recovers and listens to her orders she barks to him in German.

 

With weapon in hand, she steps over the side of the bridge and lands on her feet planted on top of a van. The rold bends beneath her feet and she raises her gun.

 

\--

 

She leaves a dent in the hard cement ground where she launches her fist at, her mission rolls away and she pulls herself up.

 

The name still rings in her head. She remembers it. _Beca._

 

There’s a woman on the bridge with her. A woman with brown hair and a scowl.

 

She knows that glare from somewhere before. Something rings familiar.

 

There’s a shiver in her spine and the howling of wind, and there’s that name.

 

 _Beca._  

 

The woman is staring at her with wide eyes and she doesn’t think she’s seen something in that blue before.

 

If she has, then it’s been taken away by the man in the suit.

 

The man in the suit.

 

Suddenly, she’s back. On the bridge. On the bridge with orders and a mission.

 

She puts the shades of blue and the name aside and she steps forward.

 

_Eliminate._

 

The woman furrows her brows and she takes another step forward.

 

_Kill._

 

“Chloe?”

 

She raises her arm, a line set on her face, she doesn’t care for the woman. She doesn’t care for this. “Who’s Chloe?”

 

There’s something special about that name, but there’s the empty space in her head and she thinks it could go in there.

 

She jumps on to a crushed car.

 

She has a mission.

 

_Eliminate._

 

The empty space in her head echoes with a laugh, it might be hers. She decides it’s not.

 

She can’t smile. She can’t laugh.

 

She never smiles, her face set in stone, grim lines and frowns.

 

_The mission._

 

She raises her metal fist.

 

\--

 

_Mission Report._

_Mission Report, now._

Her head snaps back with a loud _thwack_ , but she remembers the name, Beca, and blue, and laughter, and-

 

“That woman on the bridge.”

 

The names echo in her head, hollow and lost, in someone else’s voice.

 

“Who was she?”

 

_You met her earlier this week on an earlier assignment._

 

She doesn’t know. She _doesn’t know,_ she can’t remember.

 

Cold air, and blue, and Beca. And Chloe.

 

“I knew her.” She doesn’t know who she’s talking about, Beca or Chloe, maybe both.

 

_Your work has been a gift to mankind._

 

She wants answers.

 

_You shaped this century, and I need you to do it one more time._

 

She tries to place a name to a face. Anything. Nothing.

 

_Society’s between a tipping point between order and chaos._

 

_Hydra. Your part._

 

“The woman.”

 

_The freedom it deserves._

_Mission._

 

“But I knew her,” she pushes. She did, she knew her.

 

Once, a long time ago.

 

She thinks she hears singing in her empty space.

 

A pause.

 

_Wipe her._

 

No! _No_. Remembering is bad.

 

_Start over._

 

But she doesn’t want to forget the sweet voice in her head.

 

_Prep her._

 

Remember. Remember. Remember.

 

_Bite down._

 

Beca, Chloe, blue.

 

\--

 

Her arms push against the metal fastening.

 

Remember.

 

Beca, Chloe, blue.

 

\--

 

Her back arches, sweat slick on her skin.

 

Remember.

 

Beca, Chloe-

 

\--

 

Beca. Beca. _Beca_.

 

\--

 

_Protect. Focus. Mission._

 

\--

 

She has to remember a name.

 

She has to.

 

Just a name.

 

\--

 

Faceless figures walk by her.

 

Empty people with no meaning to her.

 

A goddamn name.

 

\--

 

_Mission. Eliminate. Blessing._

 

\--

 

_Freedom._

 

\--

 

It’s on the tip of her tongue.

 

Just two syllables, a name with meaning.

 

It’s just there, but she can’t get it.

 

\--

 

She doesn’t know who she is.

 

She doesn’t know many things.

 

Her world is grey, and red, and pain.

 

Her world is destruction and missions.

 

Her world is knowing she was someone, but she’s not anymore.

 

She’s not.

 

\--

 

The name.

 

\--

 

_This is your mission._

 

\--

 

What is the name?

 

\--

 

_You are mankind’s hope._

 

\--

 

 _Eliminate._

 

\--

 

She’s kept in a small room, locked from the outside and bars over the windows.

 

The he window is tinted and only rarely sheds light in, when there is light, it's a wan white that falls in pathetic strips across the concrete floor.

 

On one side, facing the barred window, is a bed with a stiff mattress and a thin pillow. No blanket.

 

On the otherside, a reinforced door is fused into the wall. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner comes through the slot in the middle.

 

A room.

 

It’s a room.

 

(They tell her it’s not a prison)

 

\--

 

_Help humanity. This is your mission, to eliminate the target._

 

\--

 

Sometimes, she spends hours in her room at night staring.

 

She has her back against the rough surface of her wall and her legs are set over the bed, knees jutting out in a perfect 90 degree angle and feet firmly on the floor.

 

Her head cocks to the side and her eyebrows pull together as she stares.

 

(And stares.

 

And stares.

 

And stares.)

 

Her eyes bore into it.

 

The grey reflecting the dismal lighting; it’s dull.

 

The red star intrigues her. It’s comfortable on the metal, it doesn’t jut out or mean anything to her, not personally.

 

Nothing much is personal to her. Nothing at all.

 

She spends hours examining each angle and cacing in the metal of her arm, running over the indents where metal meets metal, and the ripple of pale skin where it meets the harsh edges of her left arm.

 

She wonders what her old arm looks like.

 

She wonders what happened.

 

She can’t remember.

 

\--

 

_Tipping point._

 

\--

 

She doesn’t flinch when bullets whip past her face.

 

\--

 

There’s only been a few times she’s hesitated before, not that she can remember, but it’s because she’s hesitated that she can’t.

 

So, she never hesitates.

 

Besides, _her_ bullets are just as fast as the ones whizzing by her.

 

\--

 

 _Mission._  

 

\--

 

She forgets many things and she doesn’t remember many things.

 

She doesn’t know herself, or the men in the lab coats, or the men in the suits, or her target.

 

She doesn’t know her mission.

 

Well, she does.

 

The woman dressed in blue, and red, and white. The one with a shield.

 

She supposes it’s okay that she doesn’t know the woman, she supposes she won’t care when the woman’s clothes change from blue, red, and white to only red, red, and _more_ _red_.

 

\--

 

Her hand clenches – the one made of bone and tissue.

 

The weapon is tight in her hold.

 

She is the weapon.

 

Her right thumb digs into the slight depressions just below her left elbow.

 

Then, she pulls herself up – it would have almost been a jerk, if her movement wasn’t so smooth and calculated.

 

Her arms are static by her side and her muscles are stiff.

 

She is the weapon.

 

And she’s going to be put to good use.

 

\--

 

“I can’t let you do this, Chlo.”

 

She doesn’t know who that is.

 

So, she raises her gun and fires.

 

\--

 

_It's a war._

 

\--

 

Her knife is slashing through blue and it comes away bloodied.

 

“C’mon, Chloe,” her mission grunts.

 

She doesn’t know who Chloe is, she doesn’t _care_.

 

She has a mission and she’s going to finish it. “Who the _hell_ is Chloe?”

 

Her left arm whizzes and clicks, it’s throwing a punch again.

 

\--

 

 _There_.

 

Over there.

 

A flash of blue, red, and white.

 

America’s colours.

 

Her jaw tightens, but otherwise she portrays no other emotions.

 

How many of her metal armed punches will it take for that woman to taste it in her mouth?

 

She’s curious. She’s going to find out.

 

\--

 

 _Hail Hydra._  

 

\--

 

She doesn’t focus on anything that isn’t her mission.

 

She doesn’t think about the name she can’t remember.

 

She doesn’t think about the arm she once had.

 

She doesn’t think about who she was before.

 

Then, she does.

 

And, finally, she doesn’t, and she kicks her mission square in the stomach.

 

\--

 

She pushes forward, paying no mind to her mission’s yells or the grind of her own aching bones.

 

Swiftly. Deftly.

 

She doesn’t think about anything.

 

Except for her mission.

 

Except for _eliminating_ her mission.

 

\--

 

There’s a fire somewhere.

 

The ground is unstable and falling.

 

The world around her is shattering.

 

\--

 

_Blessing._

 

\--

 

She focuses on muscle and metal.

 

She focuses on getting her hand around her mission’s neck until her pulse slowly fades away into nothing.

 

\--

 

She’s trapped.

 

The ship is crumbling and she’s crushed.

 

There’s a creak – a loud one – and she jerks her head around.

 

Her mission is there with gritted teeth and furrowed eyebrows. Her mission’s pulling the weight off, helping her.

 

There’s air, now. There’s air spilling into her chest, and the pressure is gone.

 

She’s up in a matter of seconds. Blood on her face, fire in her eyes, and a burning in her limbs.

 

 _“Chloe_!” her mission calls again.

 

She doesn’t know who Chloe is, but she knows it’s not the name she’s been looking for.

 

In the seconds before her fist reaches the masked face of her mission, she doubts herself. She doubts the man in the suit. She doubts everything.

 

Then the ship shudders, pieces tear themselves away from each other and land below them, dark, stifling smoke billows out, and her fist connects.

 

“ _No_!”

 

She drags her body up, metal limb hanging uselessly before she wills it up, and wills it forward.

 

“ _You_.”

 

And again.

 

“ _You_ are the _mission._ ”

 

And again.

 

“Shut _up_!”

 

\--

 

 _Humanity needs you_.

 

\--

 

There’s two holes in her mission’s middle and her right arm is bent in a painful angle.

 

“Chloe. Chloe, you _know_ me,” her mission manages to say.

 

 _Captain America_ , it occurs to her who her mission is when she swings another punch. Her mission is Captain America.

 

And brave, strong Captain America does nothing when she swings her fist again and it pummels into her cheek, sending her stumbling back.

 

And brave, strong Captain America merely stares into her eyes as she’s knocked back again.

 

“ _Chloe_ ,” her mission says again.

 

She staggers forward after her mission, the foreign arm almost dragging her down.

 

“I don’t,” she thunders back, throat raw. Her hair falls limply – caked in sweat and blood – around her face, the strands nearer to her neck paste onto her damp skin. “I _don’t_ know who _Chloe_ is! I _don’t_!”

 

They’re both barely on their feet, now. Captain America’s knees tremble and her own shoulders are slumped.

 

The empty space in her mind isn’t empty anymore, it’s flooding with hisses and sharp whispers, and it _hurts_.

 

It _hurts_.

 

\--

 

The ground rumbles beneath their feet and Captain America’s legs give out under her.

 

She towers over her mission, barely, but still.

 

“ _Jesus_ , Chloe, we’ve known each other for our entire lives,” her mission blows out between pants, shield barely raised.

 

She doesn’t understand and her mind is throbbing. She doesn’t understand. “No. No, I _don’t_!” her cry is almost desperate, there’s something else there, too. “No!”

 

Captain America’s reciting, now, her shield crashing through the broken ground and into the water, Captain America is reciting as her blood leaks into her own mouth, “Your name. Your name, it’s Chloe Beale. We met when we were teenagers and you – and you loved to sing.”

 

She takes a step forward, foot thudding against the unstable ground.

 

“ _Stop_. Shut up." She’s not shouting anymore, it’s a hissed demand, almost pained, and then she realizes the thing in her voice is pleading. Her head is messy, dangerous, and she just wants to know what’s happening, but it _hurts_.

 

“You were always so strong, for me and for everyone. You were passionate, and protective, and caring. You protected me when I needed it, but Chloe, I’m here for you, now." Captain America probably would have whispered if it wasn’t for the destruction around them, because the words are fueled by meaning and sincerity, and they’re so delicate.

 

_The mission._

 

She lunges, crashing into Captain America’s body and crushing her under the weight of metal and bones.

 

It makes a terrible sound, but Captain America only grimaces.

 

“You’re my mission.”

 

Her legs stay firm by Captain America’s limp body and her left rains down.

 

“You loved so much,” it comes as a rasp, blood leaks out of the corner of Captain America’s lips.

 

Punch after punch, leaving welts and bruises.

 

“You are my _mission_ ,” she repeats over and over as a roar, it thrashes in her lungs and coils up through her throat. “ _You are my mission_.”

 

Over and over.

 

_Mission. Mission. Mission._

 

“You and me,” her _mission_ murmurs, “stronger than titanium.”

 

She yanks her elbow back, fist raised, poised.

 

She doesn’t know what to do anymore, her left arm glints as there’s another explosion and her features twist into a mixture of confusion and fury.

 

Her mission is limp under her, head lulled to the side, but eyes still pinned onto her.

 

“You and me.”

 

She doesn’t know what to make of it.

 

There’s a hesitation.

 

Then, her left hand is surging down, wrenching the mask off her mission’s head, and brown curls spill out along with dark blue eyes.

 

Her mission hisses as the mask flaps uselessly through the air before smacking into the water below them.

 

Her head is a cluster, her cold fingers flex and curl.

 

The name. She needs the name.

 

It’s harsh and accusing, but laced in desperation, “Who _are_ you?”

 

\--

 

_Wipe her. Start again._

_\--_

 

_Wipe._

_\--_

_Wipe._

 

_\--_

_Wipe her._

_\--_

_Prep her._

 

_\--_

_Start over._

_\--_

_Wipe her._

_\--_

_Start again, wipe her._

 

\--

 

“I'm Beca.”

 

\--

 

_This is your mission. Eliminate her. Save the world._

 

\--

 

The ship crashes and burns.

 

Arches of metal groan and whine as they shower down, and the ground whispers and rasps.

 

It’s gone with a rip, it’s metal gripping at metal – wrenching, falling, twisting.

 

And Captain America is hurtling through the air.

 

\--

 

_Sargent Beale._

 

_\--_

_Save the world._

_\--_

 

_You are not Chloe Beale. You are not Chloe Beale. You are not Chloe Beale._

 

_\--_

_You’re a weapon. A blessing. A gift. The saviour._

 

_\--_

_You are not Chloe Beale. You are not Chloe Beale. You are not Chloe Beale._

 

_\--_

_Bring us to victory. Excellent. Obliterate._

 

_\--_

_The world is made up of disorder and violence, and everyone's fighting for exactly the opposite._

 

\--

 

_You are not Chloe Beale._

_\--_

 

_You are going to change that._

 

_\--_

_You are not Chloe Beale._

 

_\--_

_You are not someone. You are something._

 

_\--_

_A weapon._

 

_\--_

_Missions. Kill. Eliminate. Destroy. Target. Sabotage. Hydra._

 

_\--_

_You are not Chloe Beale. You are not Chloe Beale. You are not Chloe Beale._

 

_\--_

_Erase. Wipe. Begin again. Wipe her. Start again. Once more. Wipe her._

 

_\--_

_You are not Chloe Beale._

 

\--

 

Captain America is alive and the Winter Soldier is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

-

**Author's Note:**

> okay i really hoped you liked it, do leave me some feedback (criticism, constructive or not, share ideas with me on this au bc im honestly really interested on what yall have to say etc.)
> 
> again, im _not_ in any way an expert on captain america and the winter soldier and im very on the fence on how i wrote this out, so im sorry. (except not really bc cap!beca and metal armed chloe just imagine pre-serum just snarking non-stop at ppl and having to get chloe to back her up bc shes smol and wEAK.)
> 
> once again, thanks for reading, please leave me feedback and your thoughts!!
> 
> p.s  
> not edited!


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